


One Turf Shall Serve

by Violsva



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 5 Times, 5+1 Things, ACD Holmesfest, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Pining, Sharing a Bed, sexual fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-28 00:10:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12593676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violsva/pseuds/Violsva
Summary: Five times Holmes and Watson slept together (and one time they actually had sex).





	One Turf Shall Serve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mistyzeo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/gifts).



> Originally posted [here](https://acdholmesfest.dreamwidth.org/71872.html).

**1**

The first time Holmes and I shared a bed, it was for the simple and obvious reason that we could not afford to do otherwise. It was nearing the end of the month, and my pension was running thin. Holmes’ income was frequently larger than mine, but also much more erratic, and he had had few cases lately and little recompense for those he had had. His client this time was an orphaned governess concerned about her charge, and there was no possibility that she could cover any expenses. I knew by then, though it was less than a year into our association, that Holmes found the intellectual interest of a case to be far more important than the financial aspect, and so I assumed it was with hers. But her employers lived in the countryside of Shropshire, and so we were obliged to take the cheapest of the three rooms at the tiny nearby inn, and split the price between us.

We had arrived on the last train. We were to meet Miss Worth the following day, when her employers would be out, and until then there was nothing for us to do but wait. The inn’s food was plentiful and unobjectionable, and the room was clean if nothing else.

“So,” I said, looking at the bed as evening drew on, and then I felt like an idiot.

“Hmm?” said Holmes, busy with cleaning grit out of the hinge of his cigarette case.

“Oh, nothing,” I said. I wondered why he had asked me to come at all. We had known each other for less than a year. He knew I was fascinated by his work, but I was not sure I could be of any actual help with it. If he wanted my admiration—which he would certainly have—he might just as well have told me about it afterwards. I was glad to be here, even if I was unsure of our sleeping arrangements, but I could not imagine why he had invited me.

“The bed’s large enough for two,” I said, trying to make it a statement rather than a question.

“Yes, quite,” said Holmes abstractedly. I decided that was enough of an answer, and went to the washstand to brush my teeth. I wondered if he would sleep at once, or think about the case instead. I was by now accustomed to hearing him pace for long hours of the night during a case as he puzzled the matter out. But he had repeatedly emphasized the need for data before one began to theorize, so perhaps tonight he would sleep.

He did. He seemed to see no awkwardness in undressing and lying next to me, back to back, and the bed was indeed large enough that we were not touching. Eventually I heard his breathing slow and lengthen.

He was asleep, then, and I had been too focused on him to think of sleep myself. I tried to relax. I had shared quarters nearly this close with strangers before, in the army, and Holmes was not a stranger.

Or perhaps that was the problem. Not everyone I had shared a tent with in the army had been a stranger either.

But Holmes was already asleep, I reminded myself, and I would fall asleep too, and then there would be nothing to be embarrassed about. And so it proved. When I woke the next morning he was already up and dressed; when he saw I was awake he said, “I’ll meet you downstairs, Watson,” and disappeared.

We walked out after breakfast to meet Miss Worth at her employers’ mansion. The late autumn morning was chill, and I wrapped my coat more tightly around myself, glad it was not raining but uncomforted by the wind and grey skies. The grass was dead and the leaves all fallen; the fields we passed were empty except for crows.

“Now,” said Holmes as we walked, “let me just talk the matter out to you, Watson. Miss Worth did not wish to believe in the obvious implications of her narrative, but she must have suspected them or she would not have written to me.”

I shuddered at the those of those _obvious implications_. Holmes nodded.

“I have been attempting to think of how to find evidence for it, since the girl is silent, and alternative explanations should that evidence not be there.” He proceeded to lay out his ideas, gesturing freely as he talked, and I focused on him rather than the grim November scenery. And I began to feel warmer, for no physical reason, as we went. Here was the answer to my concerns of the previous evening. He was starting to include me in his thought processes, rather than simply presenting me with the final conclusion, and I was enthralled by watching his mind work. I hoped it was helping, and as we came into sight of the drive up to our destination he placed a hand on my shoulder and thanked me.

“I hope we are not about to find a scene of horrors, but if we are we can at least stop them,” he said, and then he was silent in our final steps to the house.

 

**2**

After solving the Parrington mystery, I wanted nothing more than to go home and sleep for a week, but the last train to London had gone by the time we arrived at the nearby village. Watson dragged me to the nearest inn, and booked us a room, for which he apologized as we ascended.

“It’s small, they said, and only one bed, but it’s all they had at this time of night. You’re very quiet, Holmes.”

“I’m quite all right,” I said, and took care not to let my exhaustion show.

I barely paused to undress before lying down, but once there, as sometimes happens, my mind suddenly grew active again, and though I closed my eyes I thought sleep unlikely to come as soon as I wanted it. So I listened to the sounds of Watson’s evening routine, and noticed that they were slower than I would have expected, and that he did not immediately join me in bed when finished. He had chased after Richard Parrington along with me, and followed me for the entire day even if he had not been analyzing the evidence, and I would have expected him to be nearly as tired as I was.

When I opened an eye to see why he had not joined me, he was standing by the bed but looking out the window, fidgeting a little. Uncomfortable, certainly. But why?

I considered explanations for it. He might be feeling his injuries again, although I had heard no sounds of pain, and surely that would have driven him to lie down faster. He might simply be conscious of the wounds in my presence, though I wasn’t looking at him. He might have remembered that he’d forgotten something, and be debating with himself whether to fetch it or ask for it. He might be worried about disturbing me.

Yet it was not the first time we had shared rooms, or even a bed, and he was no less nervous than he had been before. Perhaps even more nervous, though by now he was utterly relaxed in my presence in other situations, even if we did not know each other well. Surely he should see this single night as of little importance, a convenient arrangement between friends.

 _Friends_ , Victor had said, and meant something else by it. Oh.

It might not be correct, but the idea made sense. If he was seeing this—two men in a bed—as possibly leading to sexual activity, then yes, it was certainly awkward. Which meant either that he was sexually interested in men, or that he thought I was. There was little evidence, these days, by which he could have drawn the second conclusion, and I had thankfully seen no other signs that he felt threatened by me or was inclined towards moral crusades. But the first—I had not paid much attention to it at the time, but I had occasionally observed evidence of that.

Well. That made sense, then, and I could ignore it, just as I ignored my own attraction, so long as it stayed confined to moments like this and not our everyday lives. There was a measure of satisfaction in coming to a conclusion, and sleep followed after it.

 

**3**

We had found Miss Lydgate’s fortune just after the last train departed for London, as I later confirmed by the Bradshaw. She offered us her spare room for the night, saying it was far less than we deserved for our efforts, and we accepted, having no desire to find a room elsewhere at that hour.

Once we were settled there, though, Holmes sat by the window and said, “I have not quite settled this matter in my mind, Watson. I will join you in a moment.”

Before I could reply he closed his eyes and clearly retreated from his surroundings. I hoped he would remember to get some sleep, and then stripped to my shirt and went to bed. As my eyes shut I saw Holmes sitting at the window, eyes shut and fingers steepled in front of him, looking like a marble statue of a saint.

I woke sometime in the middle of the night. A warm weight leaned against me, breathing slowly against my neck. I sighed and leaned back against it, feeling my clothes shift against my groin. My prick was hard, as it often was upon waking, and my mind soon followed it into arousal. Not quite knowing and certainly not caring where I was, I let myself fantasize, expecting to fall back into sleep. It had been a long time since I had slept next to a lover like this, but I would remember who it was and what had happened in the morning. For now, I was warm and comfortable, and thinking vaguely of pushing into even greater warmth, of soft but tight channels made for my cock, of hot skin—though I wasn’t touching skin anywhere, now that I thought of it, but cloth—and someone pressed behind me as I thrust forward, pressing into me as well. It had been very long—in fact, I really didn’t feel as if I had already satisfied myself tonight. I wanted to stay only half-conscious, to fall back into my imaginings, but my mind pulled up memories of the previous day. No, there had been a case, and a dusty attic, and Miss Lydgate: an excellent woman, but not material for venery. And Holmes, of course, covered in cobwebs and grinning at the success of his search.

I realized what had happened. Holmes, apparently done with his final analysis of the case, had joined me in the bed. I had hoped he would sleep, now that he was finished with his work, but he was pressed up closer to me than I had expected. I had thought I would sleep through his joining me. I had thought there was room enough in the bed for us both.

No, there was, I remembered it. But Holmes, in his sleep—he must be asleep—had pressed up against me, his body a long warm presence against mine. And in his sleep he was not too far from the same condition I was in.

Of course it meant nothing, but I could feel my blood heating further from the sensation. His half-erect prick nudged gently against my arse, and his breath was hot, though slow, on my neck. I had not really expected it of him, that he was capable of such a response—not that I thought him impotent, but that I had not thought of him as being human at all. If he was a physical being, his body was as singularly focused on his work as his mind was, trained for strength and speed and ignoring everything but athleticism.

I was now awake enough to know that I should hold still, to keep myself from pressing back into him. I wondered if that would wake him up, or if he would sleep through it. How much would it take to wake him? If I said his name, if I rolled over, if I embraced him, if I pressed my cock against his and rutted and kissed—

I pulled myself properly away from him and tried to calm myself. He was as human as I was, of course. His body had its own rhythms and functions, and clearly some of them went on with no input from his brain at all. Really, it was ridiculous of me to be surprised.

I wished I had not come quite so far out of sleep. I was properly awake now, and had to work to turn my mind away from Holmes before I could fall asleep again. Away from my arousal altogether, since there was nothing I could do about it in this bed.

It was much harder than falling asleep the first time had been. But I slowly calmed myself, keeping my mind from lingering too long on anything in particular, and drifted off. In the morning I tried to forget the entire incident.

 

**4**

It did not matter that there was only one bed in the last room remaining; I did not intend to sleep. Watson frowned when I told him so, but he said only, “I hope you solve the matter quickly, then.”

I expected I would; we had seen the house that afternoon, and I thought a night of consideration with my pipe (and, for Watson’s sake, an open window) would finish things nicely. This would not, I hoped, require any violence in its solution, just making the facts evident to all parties.

I arranged myself in the single chair next to the bed, my pipe and tobacco case and matches all at hand, as Watson undressed. He paused a moment, and I expected his usual request that I try to sleep if possible, but he said nothing. Odd. Perhaps he had decided it was a wasted effort; perhaps he slept better alone. We were rarely forced to share a bed these days, now that my practise was picking up, and he might even have grown shy.

The last time we had slept together, I had woken to find myself near the middle of the bed, and Watson near the edge. Perhaps he was just worried I would crowd him again.

Watson fell asleep very quickly. I lit my pipe and went over the layout of the sitting room again in my mind, with particular attention to its relationship to the rooms above. There had been no marks of furniture being moved, which implied a lower limit to the perpetrator’s height. I settled into contemplation.

I had more trouble focusing on my train of thought than I had expected, however. Every few minutes I found myself looking sideways, or listening to Watson’s breathing. He had started out facing away from me, but he rolled over shortly. His head was pillowed on his arms, and he looked...

The sitting room, I thought, and the two bedrooms over it. This was not difficult; I merely needed to determine—no, I had a good idea who it was. How I could prove it, then. And how he was protecting himself.

Watson murmured something in his sleep. “Damn it,” I said quietly, looking at him again.

“Wstfgl?” I was afraid for a moment he would wake—ridiculous to be afraid of that—but he resettled himself without opening his eyes.

I had better admit it to myself. I was very good at categorizing and locking away sexual interests when they were irrelevant; hopefully this would work the same way.

He looked ... he looked _adorable_ , comfortable and calm and sweet—I pulled my hand back. He was too far away to touch anyway. But I did want to touch him, and there was little that was sexual about it. I had been aware of his attractiveness in that sense since he had moved in; that was not a surprise. But this affection—this I was less used to pushing aside. I was much less used to feeling it at all.

But hopefully, now that I had named and placed it, I could ignore it, at least for the night. There was nothing to be done with it right now.

And what would I do with it after? No. I must focus on the case.

If it could be settled into the background of my mind, as sexual matters could, that would be best. But to keep my mind off sexual desire I had recently been forced to move away from the celibacy I had practised after university. Occasional indulgence kept my body quiescent the rest of the time. If affection worked the same way, I might have to find some fulfilment for it. And that might be impossible, depending on how Watson felt about the matter.

I would watch him, then. Surely he did feel something for me, and I knew he was not repulsed by men.

But for now, I moved the chair to the window. Watson made a quiet noise behind me, and I tried to ignore it as my chest warmed.

At the window, I could focus, which was a relief. The alternative—having to stay entirely away from Watson to continue working—was untenable. But perhaps I had better try harder to avoid sharing a room, and certainly a bed, with him, at least until I had made a decision.

There, with Watson’s quiet constant breathing in the background, I laid out my solution, and the best way of convincing the family. It was still dark when I had finished. I looked at the bed, and then at my pocketwatch. I had a good few hours until dawn—I might as well sleep. I undressed and lay down, my gaze falling to Watson again. He was now sleeping deeply on his back, breathing evenly and quietly. I really was not used to these emotions at all.

Admittedly I was more used to them directed at Watson than anyone else. If I thought of them as elaborations on our friendship they were not as unnerving. I could adjust to them. If, after watching Watson and seeing if they were reciprocated, I could even combine them with my shoved-aside sexual interest in him, then...

I hadn’t wanted to feel this anymore, but it had its benefits, at least when reciprocated. In that dark room, lying next to Watson and hearing his calm breathing, feeling his warmth from the sheets, it was easy to be optimistic.

 

**5**

Holmes’ finances improved as his name became more widely known, and we began to live a little better. Most of our cases were within London, or close enough that we could go and return in a day if the matter were not too complicated. Farther outside of the city, our inn rooms grew larger and the inns themselves finer.

I was more relieved than I admitted. Holmes two yards away in a separate bed was far less unnerving than Holmes sleeping next to me. I would never have begrudged him the bed—I worried over his lack of concern for his own health—but I half-consciously did not trust myself, or my body, in bed with him. It had become more significant than I wanted it to be, when it should mean nothing.

Besides, even with more space he generally only slept on a case when he had decided that he did not have enough information to theorize instead. I was quite safe from anything of the sort.

But in 1884 we were summoned to Margate, at the height of the season, to investigate a peculiar incident involving an unconscious woman found in a bathing-machine. Due to a delayed train, what should have been less than two hours’ journey stretched out interminably, and we arrived after most of the attractions had closed for the night. Even with the support of the local police Holmes could not examine the machine itself until morning. We went looking for a room.

Margate was full of hotels and inns and houses with a room or two to let, but those were equally full of occupants. At last we found a small house that would give us a room, though I was not sure I trusted the landlady and the rate was atrocious. It was clean enough, and the door did lock. But there was only one bed.

I could not object, not without drawing attention to the very thing I wanted to avoid thinking about. I hoped Holmes planned to spend the night awake, thinking through the case, though normally I would have encouraged him to sleep. He paced around the small room, muttering to himself, until at last he sighed and shook his head.

“It’s no use,” he said; “I shall have to see the site.” He slumped into a chair and pulled out his cigarette case. “Go on, go to bed,” he said, lighting one. “I’ll join you.”

I did not think then that his presence would be as much of a problem as it turned out to be. I brushed my teeth, undressed, and lay down fully expecting to sleep, and when Holmes joined me I was only a little disturbed by his coming. The bed was large enough, certainly.

But time passed, and I let my thoughts drift and empty, and slowed my breathing, and I did not sleep. Holmes fell asleep next to me, and the last few lights outside the windows went out. I rolled over and buried my eyes in the pillow, and then rolled onto my back again. There was a thud from another room, then silence.

I turned onto my side, and thought about what I knew of the case. The lady had been sprawled on the floor in her bathing-dress, alone in a wooden room that had held five women when it left the shore. The idea was chilling. Holmes was certain that it was a matter of incorrect information, and would be cleared up as soon as he could examine the bathing-machine and question the witnesses, but the idea of the lone unconscious bather held a strong fascination, improper though it might be. Holmes had brightened as soon as he saw the letter, and insisted that I read aloud everything relevant that I could find in the papers. He had had few cases of late, and his eyes had lit up like a panther’s when it spots a deer.

No, it wasn’t the lady in her bathing-dress who was fascinating me. I rolled to my side again. Voices filtered up from the street, and faded. As I attempted to clear my mind, my hand kept drifting down my body against my will. I was fidgeting, and I hoped desperately that Holmes was sleeping too deeply to notice. He was warm behind me, and I could still hear his breathing, and even without touching him I felt I knew exactly where he was, and how close to me. I kept myself facing away from him.

Even so, my mind was drifting much farther than I wanted it to. I thought of the ocean, of the irritating train journey, of Holmes’ eyes focused intently on me as I read to him. I reached for my watch, and found I could not read it in the darkness. I put it away and rolled onto my front, which was a mistake.

At last, turning back, I had to admit to myself what I had, of course, known all evening: I was awake because I was aroused, and I was aroused because of Holmes.

In my own bed it would have been easy. I would have thought of Fanny Hill, or some other potent distraction, and frigged myself, and spent, and fallen asleep at once. Here, right next to Holmes, that was impossible.

It was _impossible_ , I told myself, but I was already imagining it. If I did not move, and made no sound myself, the only sign of it would be the sheets rustling. Surely there was no chance of that waking him. I could touch myself with him right beside me and completely unaware. But if the bed creaked, or if I gave in and made a sound—I had no idea what would wake him. I had seen him sleep on a train without hearing the steam whistle, and I had seen him start awake in our sitting room in response to a noise I had never noticed. Perhaps even the slight motion of the bed would be enough, and perhaps if he did wake he would simply reach over and lay his hand gently on top of mine—

I could not think of this. I had not even touched myself and yet my cockstand was visibly raising the blankets. I turned to my side—facing away from Holmes—and put my hands under the pillow, feeling like a scolded schoolboy.

But I couldn’t redirect my mind. I remembered waking up next to him a year before, and thinking for a confused moment that he was my lover. Since then I had shared a bed with a few women, breaking the self-imposed celibacy that had followed my injury, but none of them had lingered in my mind afterwards. Yet that night had, though I had tried harder to forget it than any of the others.

I had been lying just like this, then, but closer to him, warm and comfortable, and he had been aroused as well—but that had had nothing to do with me. I tried to think of something else, and instead remembered the last time we had shared a bed, when I had thought he would spend the night thinking over a case. Instead I had woken to find myself looking directly at his face, calm and serious in sleep but so appealing—not only desired but beloved. Oh god, it was not just my body involved in this.

I could not stay in the same bed as him like this for any longer. I stood; Holmes made a soft noise, and I turned, startled, but to my extreme relief his eyes were still closed.

I backed away and sat on the single hard chair. This was still no solution; I was in the same room as him, and there was nowhere else in the inn I could go. I looked out the window—there was scarcely any light now, except for one window, far away. It was cloudy, and I could only dimly make out the shapes of buildings against the sky. I found my watch again, and tilted it until I could read the time. It was two in the morning.

I had lain awake for hours, and yet there were hours more until dawn, and I could not return to bed until I had found some cure for my state.

Although I would have to return—I would have no explanation if Holmes asked me why I had spent the night in this chair. I got up to pace—it might wake him, but I had too much energy to stay seated. And it did at least give me something to do with myself.

I alternated between pacing and sitting until the sky outside began turning faintly grey. Frequently I began to feel like I had control over myself, and then I would attempt to rest, and as soon as I was near Holmes things would worsen again. He didn’t wake, and I yawned and yawned until I was sure, in the beginnings of dawn, that I would at least get some sleep.

Besides, I had better lie down before Holmes woke, and hope that I had left no trace of my restlessness on the room. I returned to bed. The sheets were cold, except where the warmth from my friend’s body crept across them. I lay with my back to him and tried to ignore it, as the room began to grow lighter.

 

**+1**

At the end of the case that Watson would no doubt call _The Adventure of the Bathing-Machine_ , he tried very hard to convince me to return to London at once. There was no chance of that. He had stubbornly insisted on following me all day, but I knew definitely that he had not slept at all the previous night, and by suppertime he was nearly dead on his feet. As a result he was also snappish and impatient. However, he acknowledged that we had to return to our lodging house to retrieve our bags, and once we were there I simply refused to leave again.

“My dear Watson, you are exhausted,” I said, leaning against the door. “For the love of God, go to sleep.” It was rather amusing to be on the other side of this conversation, which we had already had more than a few times.

“I might just as easily sleep on the train.”

“Badly. There’s no sense in going through all that bother, on a Sunday night when we’ll be surrounded by hundreds of holiday-makers. And we paid for two nights, you know, and that harpy downstairs isn’t going to refund it.”

Watson frowned, unconvinced. “We’d both be much more comfortable at home.”

“First we’d have to get home. Lie down, Watson; I want to think over the case some more, but you should sleep.”

In fact I had no further interest in the case, but I was testing a hypothesis, and it was proved accurate. Watson sighed and unbuttoned his coat, and I smiled to myself and sat in the one badly-stuffed chair.

It might have seemed a bad sign that he specifically didn’t want to share a bed with me, but I had seen him last night, the several times I had awakened, and I had seen the state he was in. It was not that he wanted to avoid me, but that he did not want to embarrass either of us.

“Do you mind if I put out the light?” Watson asked, and I waved a hand in permission.

The room quieted. I retreated to my thoughts, not about the case, but about my companion.

Once I had started watching Watson, it was clear enough that he wanted me. I could not tell whether his affection was purely friendly, but he obviously felt desire as well. He watched me, sometimes without seeming to notice what he was doing; he touched me frequently, and probably his attempts to take care of me were signs as well. I began to think that I need only reach out my hand to have him.

But that didn’t mean it would turn out well. I was not always so optimistic as I had been that night I began to observe him. It was all very well to think that I had a partner who understood and enjoyed my work and would not make demands of me, but Watson had his irritating qualities. Primary among them was his tendency towards romance, his fondness for adventure and pageantry and sentimentality. He saw a different world than I did, and not always a realistic one.

And however well he knew me, however well we got along, I knew very well that I had my own flaws—he would likely say I had many—and his patience for them might end at any time.

Still, I had begun to nerve myself up to speak to him. I wanted this badly, and I hoped that might be enough.

And now here we were in the same situation that had catalysed this in the first place, with no calls on our time tonight or tomorrow, and a landlady who didn’t know or care who we were. I wished that Watson had been well rested, so that I would not have had all this time to second-guess myself.

Now, though, he was breathing deeply and evenly, utterly unconscious. I took myself to bed; I was not as exhausted as he had been, but was certainly tired enough to sleep. But I had plans for the next day, and I charged myself to wake before he did.

When I woke the morning light was bright across our pillows. Watson was stretched out on his back, his head turned away from the light, and towards me. I had moved closer to him in my sleep, and I stayed where I was, feeling the warmth of Watson and the sunlight. My plans were clear in my mind, but they didn’t require anything of me immediately. I let myself give in to sentimentality.

I was so used to him now that sometimes I did not remember how much he had changed from the shy war-sick straggler I had first taken rooms with. He had filled out wonderfully in the last few years, and a little of the strain had come out of his face. He looked, in fact, younger than he had in 1881. I hoped I had played some part in that.

He shifted further away from the light; the sun would wake him soon if I didn’t. I slowly adjusted my position, raising myself and leaning over him. It was tempting to steal a kiss, but I didn’t, watching his face. I balanced above him and gently touched his cheek. “Watson,” I said.

“Hmm?”

“Watson, wake up.”

His eyes moved first, still closed. His lips pressed together, then softened. I ran a finger along his jawline, and he turned into my touch. “Hlmms?” he murmured.

“Watson.” His eyes blinked open, slowly focusing on me.

“Holmes?” His voice was rough with sleep, but gaining understanding. I would have to act quickly.

I bent down and kissed him, turning my head to fit against his. He froze, then his mouth opened slightly. I pulled back.

“Holmes,” he whispered. “Are you—am I awake?” He was clearly becoming more so every second, awareness returning to his eyes.

“Yes,” I said. I kissed him again, slowly, and felt him begin to return it.

“Holmes,” he breathed against my lips, “what is this?”

“I hope it’s what both of us have wanted.”

Watson stared at me. “Yes,” he said, “but how—I thought you—do you?”

“Do I what?” I asked leaning back to give him space. He blushed.

“I assumed you were utterly unfamiliar with ... sex.”

I almost laughed. “Not at all.” I considered; he was looking surprised, and something else. And I had not said everything I thought.

But could I say it? “It isn’t sex that was foreign to my experience,” I said, hoping that would be enough, but it clearly wasn’t. “It is love.”

And now he looked disappointed, and I did not enjoy this at all—I did not want to have to speak of these things. I wanted them to be over with, and everything understood. “Until recently,” I said, being shamelessly obvious, and his relief was almost comically evident.

“If we understand one another now, can we proceed?”

“Holmes,” said Watson, almost pleadingly. “I had not even imagined—”

“Certainly you have imagined it,” I said. “All of last night, for example.” He blushed still redder.

“You are a wizard,” he said. “I thought you were asleep.”

“For most of the night I was,” I said, “but I sleep lightly, and you were restless.”

“That I was,” he admitted. He reached over and cradled the back of my head, the first time that morning he had touched me instead of the reverse. I leaned forward with the pressure, and he kissed me.

With that start, I could kiss him back, and lie against him. And now he began kissing me properly, and—ah—he was good at it, and his hands soon pulled me in close, and then slid over me. On top of him and with my weight on one arm, I was at something of a disadvantage in responding, but I ran my fingers along his neck and he sighed gratifyingly. I knew what I wanted, with a specificity that surprised me, and in a moment, when I had tired of kissing him, I would start.

He pulled on my shirt and I smiled against his mouth, and stopped kissing him so he could take it off. He paused then, when I would have preferred to kiss him again, and stared at me, one hand on my shoulder. I straightened under his gaze, letting him look. “Holmes,” he said, his voice breaking, and he pulled me against him and kissed me deeply. My chest tightened as the rest of me relaxed into him. His tongue slipped into my mouth, and I let him kiss me until his lips moved down to my neck.

Then I grabbed at his nightshirt, realizing that I had let myself become distracted. He sat up and removed it, and once it was on the floor I pressed him to the bed. But I had barely started leaning in the direction I intended when he pulled my face down to his and kissed me again, and shifted as if he wanted to turn us. We struggled for a second that had me wanting to laugh, and then I slipped out of his arms.

“Come back here,” he said. It was very tempting, but I shoved the blankets out of the way and moved further down, to where he was straining toward me. “God, all right then.”

I kissed his hips, wanting both to take him in at once and to tease him. He spread his legs and I licked his stones, just because they were there. His breathing was fascinating.

As I mouthed at his sack his fingers ran through my hair, and at last he pulled on it gently and I raised my eyes to his. “Holmes,” he groaned, and I gave in to the pressure of his hand and wrapped my lips around him.

He was a good size for it, and responsive enough that I had some idea what I was doing. He liked my tongue; he liked depth. He had dropped his hand to his side once I had started sucking him properly, and his fingers were clenching in the bedsheets. I wished he hadn’t; I wanted them back in my hair, but I couldn’t say so at the moment. His hips were moving under me, speeding up, and he was growing ever harder. I took a breath, and then bent further over him, taking him in to my throat, and he swore and groaned and swore again and spent in my mouth.

I was nearly at the same point from causing it. I pulled off and lay next to him, reaching for myself.

“Fuck,” he said after a moment. “That was—” Then he grabbed my arm, faster than I had thought he would be able to after an orgasm like that. “None of that,” he said, pulling my hand away from my cock. He moved down, and gently bit one of my nipples, and I bit my lip and tried not to moan.

“Ah,” said Watson, and did it again. His hand moved down, and he stroked me and suckled me until I was almost, almost there, and then he bent down and took me in his mouth and I spent gasping under him.

He held me afterward, and I stayed in his arms, wishing vaguely for a cigarette but with no desire to move. “You are here,” he said eventually.

“Of course I am.”

He sighed, and kissed me, almost hesitantly. I returned the kiss, and it grew deeper and more involved. When he broke away we were both breathless.

“Well,” he said, “we’re in a fine resort town, with no calls on our time, and no one expecting us. Shall we go to the theatre, or down the pier, or see the sights?”

“I’ve really no desire to see any sights outside this room,” I said. He smiled.

“So long as we do get back to London by tonight,” he said, and kissed me again.


End file.
